why you should read my blog:

because the last 3 poems i've written are entitled:

-Cats are feminist, even the boy ones

--Vagina

---When I Smoke Crack (AKA: when I listen to Radioead, who probably wrote these songs while smoking crack)

I'm debating on whether or not I'll actually post the poems. You may judge me if I do. You may see a Jamie you didn't know...or one you didn't want to know. (Duh-duh-DUNNNNNNN)

peace out homies.

my disgusting habit

I was playing with Ella, pretend-tackling her into my pillows on my bed when she said, "JJ ouchie? Ouch, JJ, ouch!" She put her teeny little slivers of fingers on my fingernail, pointing at a barely-scabbed-over "boo-boo" just below my nail.
I've bitten my fingernails for years...15, actually. It started because of those stupid Bernstein Bears books--"Sister Bear Breaks a Habit." I remember that book because Sister Bear had a terrible habit in which she chewed and chewed and chewed her nails.
For some ungodly reason, I decided to become the termite of philanges.
Yes, it's a nervous habit. It's also a bored habit, an "I'm preoccupied" habit, a reactional habit...one that calls for some action to be made in an awkward situation. Biting my fingers has become my crutch, and when all my fingernails were in peeled, layered nubs, I would pick and pick and pick at my skin and cuticles until little lines and drops of blood would bubble up on my skin. Then I sucked up the blood until it was gone.
Oh who am I kidding, I still do it. Maybe not as bad. Now I can actually stand to have a few centimeters of finernail, but they usually don't last long. I partially blame it on softball, because who can pitch or throw in nails? But still...it's still here. Even my 22-month old niece can spot a problem that I can't seem to just fix.

Stuffing

In middle school, I remember when a boy--who I eventually dated and dumped-- told me that I talked too much. My opinions were a bit different from his...which is why I eventually dumped him. He was a bit of a chauvinistic (fill in the blank) and would comment on my "fatness" which, at that point, was ridiculous because I was very skinny.
Okay moving on.
So clearly this boy was a prick. Not very nice, very self-centered and very defensive when someone disagreed with him on the role of girls in society, in the sports world, etc. (What? Me getting fired up about athletic sexism? NOOOO way.)
I said, "Mouths are for eating and talking."
So in the spirit of Thanksgiving, my mouth has had a motor for food, I guess. Household conversation has been pretty funny and entertaining, especially since Ella has a motormouth and is quite funny when she sticks a thermometer up a baby doll's cloth butt.
But I feel like I'm eating to stuff myself--to keep words from getting out. I graze among the kitchen before and after lunch with the family. I graze on the ham, the before-cooked stuffing, the cooked stuffing, the strips of moist turkey, the finger swipes of mashed potatoes, the peeled skin of a roll. I graze on it all. The food stifles any mode of expression I accidentally leak out sometimes.
The problem is that it's Thanksgiving and I still feel sad. I love my family and I'm glad they're mine. They are wonderful and I'm fortunate. But I'm growing in different ways, and I can't talk much anymore. I can't talk about things I'm excited about or new theories I'm pondering. I can't talk about my newest essay piece with them because it deals with a very difficult part of my life that my parents know nothing about.
Right now, I feel very very alone. I want to be somewhere else, not to get away from problems here, but to feel free. I want to breathe new air. I don't want to feel the country particles anymore. I don't want to feel the density of disbelief, the weight of dusty confines of religion and the "right" way of things versus the "wrong" way of things.
I can't speak anymore, and the sad thing is... things have actually gotten better.

Bible Belt

Miss Scarlett braces herself against
the bed post as Mammie tugs
the strings of the corset;
Scarlett inhales, holds, inhales,
holds her lifted ribcage in place
while the strings tighten,
inch—
Mammie pulls-
at—
“Woo, Miss Sca’lett!”
a—
“Won’ go no fu’tha!”
time.

Scarlett scoffs in frustration,
“18?! Mammie, I used to be 16, now fix it!”
“Won’ go no fu’tha, chile—yous done has
A baby, miss, you won’ see no 16 inches!”

Southern belles must’ve been disappointed
After their second, third, fourth child;
Another inch,
another hole in the belt
to loosen the strain,
to allow a little room for the belly,
to relax the ribs for deeper breaths;

and when little Georgia peaches emerged,
plump from the harvest,
Scarletts everywhere would scoff in disgrace,
Strap on the corsets,
Grab a Mammie
And demonstrate to their little peaches
The figure of a lady;
the corset seam stretches,
a thread—
“Won’ go no fu’tha, chile”
pops—
“You’s done has a baby”
loose
as Bonnie Blue runs to her pony,
straddling,
with one chubby leg on each side.

i don't have words, but i have lyrics

Top of the World
Patti Griffin

I wished I was smarter
Wished I was stronger
I wished I loved jesus
The way the my wife does
I wished it'd been easier
Instead of any longer
I wished I could've stood
Where you would've been proud
That won't happen now
That won't happen now
There's a whole lot of sinners
That ain't gonna be heard
Disppearing every day
Without so much as a word
Somehow
I'm afraid I broke the wings
Off that little songbird
And she's never gonna fly
To the top of the world How
To the top of the world
I don't have to answer
Any of these questions
Don't have no guide to
Teach me no lessons
I come home in the evening
Sit in my chair
One night they called me for supper
But I never got up
I stayed right there
In my chair
There's a whole lot of singing
That ain't gonna be heard
Disappearing every day
Without so much as a word
Somehow
I think I broke the wings
Off a little songbird
And she's never gonna fly
To the top of the world
How
To the top of the world
I wished I'd had known you
Wished I had shown you
All of the things I
Was all these are
But I'd pretend to be sleeping
When you'd come in in the morning
To whisper goodbye
Go work at the rain
I don't know why
Don't know why
Cause everyone's singing
We just wanna be heard
Disappearing every day
Without so much as a word
So how?
Gonna grab a hold
Of that little songbird
And take her for a ride
To the top of the world
Right now
To the top of the world

i am alive!

usually when i have down time, i emerge myself into computer world...aka facebook world, youtube world, picture-stalking world, people-stalking world, poetry writing world...
not when i'm sick.
i had the flu this past weekend and it was disastrous. my chest felt soooo freakin weird--all tight and raspy. i felt like i'd run a marathon in freezing cold weather like the time i had to pitch when there was snow and ice on the ground, 27 degrees outside in the middle of the day. i couldn't feel my fingers or hands or even elbows or shoulders. but this time, the flu BURNED my lungs.
and then that stupid nasal swab test.
i tested my pinky finger, to see how far up it would go. not even close to that skinny Olive-Oil representation of a Q-tip, which I'm grateful for its skinniness, but still--I felt like I was being embalmed by Egyptians, you know how they stick a hook up the nose to slide out the brain.
in other words, the flu sucks. as if my head didn't hurt enough...
but the point is that i barely touched my computer. i allowed myself a bit of a break--from school, from the electronic communication world, and i let myself breathe. I watched Lost like a madwoman--in 3 days, I went through 2 and a half seasons--and I also did some more reflection time, and a little more God time.

big deal (ehh it's whatev)

maybe i'm one of those lucky people who is content with the speed of days and weeks and months. if days go faster, my brain would possibly explode. if days go slower, my brain would definitely implode.
so i can't complain about the pace of my life. it seems steady enough, and i don't feel that days go too fast or too slow...well, until i have umteen billion papers or poems or stories or narratives or blackboard posts due. i don't seem to be completely worked up about school--i mean it has to take up a lot of time, but i'm glad it does. i'm glad for my midnight munchies that often occur at 2am... not the regular munchies. i shall call them... inking. sometimes i can't go to sleep unless i've pulled an idea or even a word from the emergency flashbulb of my brain...the bright orange and blue and red one that goes "Hey!" (flash) "Write me!" (flash) "I'm important!" (flash) "I have a resolution for your story!" (flash)

it's probably boring that i write about writing a lot. but it's such a process... it's just a way of life for me at the moment. i have passed on hanging out with friends so i can get a story out of my head that, in stead of my projected short burst word-vomit", lasted hours.

i wish i could write the resolution to my own life sometimes. i wish that my own caricature would start alleviating her own stress, therefore causing the growing mountain range on her chin to simply disappear. this character would also become more vibraint-looking, getting rid of the purple smudgy swipes under her eyes, and would simply smash her phone into black plastic chips of oblivion and screw you!'s.

this character would allow her nails--and the skin around them--to grow past the quick. This character would stop writing notes on her hand, because she would actually check her calendar every day and write in the planner that sits in her backpack, stuck in mid-October.

this character would submit her work to publishers and contests out of self-confidence. she would throw her "what if's" and self-doubt into the speckled toilet and watch it swirl gracefully and dizzily through the hole, where all the other poo in her life had been disposed.

this character would be impatient for next year, anticipating the growing and changing and relief she will experience.
i AM under anticipation, but it's calm and overpowered by questions of who i am, where i've ACTUALLY come from verses where i used to think i come from. questions of friends, questions of why i'm satisfied with continuously rescheduling my dentist appointment, questions of why i feel much more comfortable in a messy room than a clean one, questions of why i'd rather type on a blog than complete my assignments, questions of why i don't seem to care about my jiggly cottage-cheese thighs or my funny spare tire i've seemed to inherited in the last couple of years.
big deal.